


and i feel guilty but i can't feel ashamed

by shledzguohn



Category: Ghost Trick: Phantom Detective
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Dubious Consent, Emotional Abuse, F/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-10
Updated: 2012-03-10
Packaged: 2017-11-01 19:57:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/360637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shledzguohn/pseuds/shledzguohn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not a soul was pure enough to bleach white onto his coat, oh no.</p><p>Warnings in the tags.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and i feel guilty but i can't feel ashamed

**Author's Note:**

> another blackcoat cabanela fic, along the lines of [verne's](http://archiveofourown.org/works/327356) and [my previous one](http://archiveofourown.org/works/329884). title: the mountain goats - prowl great cain.

Anyone who says black doesn't stain has never worn it.

In fact, black shows everything. Every speck of dust, every flake of skin -- Cabanela spends a quarter of his paycheck on moisturizing conditioner just to keep it from looking like it's snowed on his shoulders. Anything lighter than black shows up obvious as a spotlight focused right at him. And while most of it comes out in the wash, it still presents a temporary inconvenience. Cabanela does so hate to be inconvenienced.

A glance at the coat crumpled by her ankles tells him it looks fine so far today, colorwise, if currently prone to wrinkles. (He _would_ pick it up and fold it properly, but. A bit occupied at the moment. Later.) It's not that he's _vain_ about his looks, it's just... No. Actually? He is. He's vain as a cat and proud as a lion and it almost makes him laugh, that small flash of self-awareness.

Jowd's called it "the path of the black coat", like it's something so symbolic and meaningful. He takes it too seriously, but then again his friend takes everything in life too seriously, in Cabanela's eyes. Passionate about all the little details and detritus that never really matter. He still loves him all the same, but his whole white-knight schtick can get, eh. Tedious.

Muuuch more fun playing the bad cop.

That's all he ever makes it out to be in public, anyway. Just 'playing' the persona, putting on a mask for the criminals acting out their own roles (and some of them nearly seem to expect him; they've read the playbill already in a thousand late-night crime dramas and trashy action novels). _Ooh, detective, I'm innocent, I swear,_ and it's enough to make him roll his eyes and either laugh or sneer, depending on his mood.

No one is totally righteous, nobody wholly just. And maybe they hadn't done what they were charged with, but it didn't make much difference to him. The suspects would be put away, either culpable scum of unwitnessed past transgressions, or volatile crooks of the potential future.

(He remembers the last 'big case' of the latter sort, the one with the boy and the gun and the park. A perfect model of his stance that suspects were just criminals before their crime -- after all, he'd taken that girl hostage, hadn't he? He'd have ended up riiight back in the pokey if it weren't for the accident.

It was just after Cabanela explained that to his partner that he heard him mumble about philosophies and the 'black coat' line, and he laughed; it was six months later when Jowd told him about the results of the investigation, and he shrugged and told him he took life too seriously and laughed again. Who cared, who caaared about one guy way back when. Jowd had to keep movin' fooorward if he was goin' to match up to his partner's new promotion!)

The way of the black coat. It meant always getting his man, no matter what. It meant receiving writeups and talking-tos until his official record was more stain than praise, and _still_ getting promoted because he really was just that damn good. It meant knowing that nobody was righteous, no one just, and acting accordingly. Not a soul was pure enough to bleach white onto his coat, oh no.

Not a soul... save for one.

She was sweet but spicy, a Scotch bonnet wrapped in light chiffon. The real nurturing type, all bandages and chicken soup and kiss the wounds to make them better. And at the same time she had it in herself to wound, if prompted. It didn't surprise him at all that Jowd had snapped her up like he had, put a ring on her finger and a bun in the oven before Cabanela'd even had the pleasure to meet her. That was close to five years ago now, and he still approved of the choice his partner had made. Jowd's wife was really something special.

He tells her so. "You're really sooomething special, sweetheart," he says, looking down at the top of her head for the first time since she started. She makes a small sound of acknowledgement as her warm hands work on him in breathtaking ways; he arches back slightly, hamstrings pressing into the foot of the bed. He runs his rough fingertips through her hair, smoothing down the soft peaks and noticing the way the ends fall past the back of her bra, one strap hanging loose off her shoulder and gods, is she beautiful. Jowd doesn't know what he has. Doesn't appreciate her the way he does.

He tells her that too. Then he tells her to suck him.

The deal iiis, Cabanela reasons to himself (her lips are there, her tongue gives a tentative flick), that opposites attract. High risk comes with high reward, good girls want bad boys, and black tarnishes white far easier than the opposite. He keeps touching her hair, a positive reinforcement while her warm mouth caresses him with all the gentleness as she might give to a good-night kiss on her daughter's forehead.

It's somewhat unbelievable, how Jowd doesn't even use what he's got. Oh, he's sure the man 'loves' her; that's just the kind of guy he is. But Cabanela knows that it's _him_ who gives her what she wants, what she _needs_ and can't get from Jowd. He sees it in the swallow of emotion in her throat when he tells her how her husband won't be in until late tonight, how the special investigation unit suddenly delegated him heaaaps of paperwork down at the precinct. Hears it in the way she talked about him to a friend last week, when he was over and just happened to overhear. _I know he comes on a little strong,_ she said, staring into her cup of tea. _If you only knew him the way I do, you'd see..._

He rocks forward as he releases into her, onto her, her flushed cheeks and soft locks and the loose strap of her bra, painting his signature onto a masterpiece. The world is glowing and pleasant and Cabanela is intoxicated with his control of it all, with her on her knees and his hand still resting on her head, her breath hot against his skin as she gasps. Everything is perfect, exactly as it should be.

The moment breaks when she leans back onto her calves, and out of the corners of his half-lidded eyes Cabanela catches her reaching down for the closest piece of fabric. He swiftly digs his fingers through her hair and _clenches_ before she can raise it up to her face. She cries out and lets the hem fall from her hand. "Nooow, don't go cleaning off with that coat, baby," he says calmly, and she lets out a quiet sniffle. "I don't want to think about what would happen to you if you stained it."


End file.
